


Get An Ice Pack

by madeinessos



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Demonic Possession, Dubious Consent, M/M, Met Gala 2018 outfits, Orgasm Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 23:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14604051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeinessos/pseuds/madeinessos
Summary: T'Challa, a priest, gets possessed. Then he masturbates, if it counts as masturbation. For theology.





	Get An Ice Pack

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Tinashe's _Stuck With Me._

“Tell me about yourself,” T’Challa said, looking down at his own photograph taken three days ago, nervous yet curious because he had never spoken to a demon before.

Of course the demon said nothing.

It was almost noon. Smells of ripe cashew and mango floated in from the parking lot, where children were screaming and playing. T’Challa was knelt by a pew closest to the row of double doors opening to the parking lot. He was pretending to pray. A few pews to his right, a grandmother and her two grandchildren were indeed praying the rosary, their little group suffused with the sunlight pouring in from the stained glass windows.

The aesthetic of it all seemed terribly unfashionable for demonic meet-and-greets.

A ripple of laughter burned in the back of T’Challa’s mind.

He shivered. Took a moment to catch his breath.

Then he returned to examining his photograph.

Three days ago, T’Challa had stood under a mango tree in the parking lot and asked a street sweeper to kindly please take his picture. It had been after a High Mass for the school children’s confirmation rites. T’Challa had stood with his back to the tree, still in his ornamented white vestments, his arms on his sides, his eyes tired and heavy because of the night before.

Three days ago, the hand clasping his right wrist from behind had not been in the photograph. 

*

“Do you have a name?” 

T’Challa languidly stirred the pepper soup in his bowl, and waited. For an answer. A word, a prickle of feeling, anything.

He was having lunch in his room whilst trying to focus on translating another Bible chapter into the parishioners’ own language. 

He normally took his lunch in the common hall of the convent where they prayed before sharing bowls of coconut rice and stew, and plates of fufu, and a pot of that day’s soup, and a pitcher of cold cashew or mango juice. There would be an overflowing of conversation and laughter. The breeze from the wide window would be soothing.

But today, as in the past three days, T’Challa was gripping his spoon just a little too tight, his hands were just a little too clammy, his mind was just a little too unsettled, and he was just a little too sleepless.

But this _was_ T’Challa’s body, and he would be damned if he would not still take charge.

And he might just learn something new. This whole business was very much beyond theory, after all.

“Do you like pepper soup?” T’Challa tried again. “This one has just the right amount of uziza seeds.”

The convent air remained tranquil. A bird twitted outside. T’Challa translated another sentence from English.

Then he added: “You do know it is rude to just barge in and not even try to be polite, yes?”

The demon remained silent.

*

The demon was silent all through the hour and a half when T’Challa worked on his translations. No prickles of feeling, no anything. It was like he had not possessed T’Challa at all.

It was almost considerate.

*

As T’Challa settled into the confession box for that afternoon’s confessions, he felt a crackle of amusement in the back of his mind.

T’Challa was bemused. “What is it?”

What on God’s earth could be so amusing about a confessional box?

The crackle of amusement did not burn, unlike the demon’s laughter. But it rolled on and on for some moments, becoming heavy, turning humid. Like a lick of sweat on T’Challa’s nape.

T’Challa swallowed hard. He tugged on his clerical collar. “You cannot be serious.”

As if in response, the demon let his presence known all throughout the confessions. With every murmured “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” from the other side of the partition, the demon’s amusement grew heavier and more humid until T’Challa was drenched in sweat and he could not help the shivers down his spine.

Shiver after shiver of uneasiness, because of T’Challa’s concern for his own fleshly well-being.

And shiver after shiver of a perverse sort of curiosity, because this was out of this mortal plane and he wanted to study it. Also because T’Challa could feel that the demon was aroused, and it felt good.

*

T’Challa jerked out of his doze in the middle of the night.

He swung his legs over the side of his bed, then rolled his writing desk towards him. He’d had the photograph in his hand even before he switched the desk lamp on. 

T’Challa’s breath snagged in his throat.

The hand clasping his right wrist was gone.

Instead, there was an arm slung over T’Challa’s right shoulder. As if a person had sneaked up behind him whilst crouching, and was in the process of climbing over to peer at the camera.

Slightly trembling, T’Challa looked up and around his small room. The desk lamp’s small circle of light was alone in the midst of shadows. Across from him was a window overlooking the convent’s courtyard and garden. Beside the window was his mirror. It was full of the room’s shadows.

When T’Challa looked down again, there was a hand creeping over his own.

T’Challa stared.

Hardly breathing.

T’Challa stared some more. It was a corporeal hand. 

The demon’s fingers made its slow way up from T’Challa’s right wrist, as if mapping out land. They traced his knuckles in a sort of contemplative way, the dull scars there where T’Challa had broken someone’s nose a decade ago. Then the demon studiously stroked each of his fingers, from his nails to the faint hairs near his knuckles to the crooked tilt of his third and fourth fingers. And then the demon slotted his fingers between T’Challa’s, linking his own with them.

Oddly, T’Challa could not feel the texture of the demon’s hand. He could not feel that there was supposed to be a hand over his own right hand, only see the fact.

In the light of the desk lamp, T’Challa could see that the arm attached to the hand was clothed in a sort of black pinstripe suit.

It was so far from what he had expected that the sight almost made him laugh.

“So it felt good, huh?” said the voice very near T’Challa’s right ear. “My arousal felt good. That right?”

T’Challa did not answer. He wondered what he would see if he turned his head.

T’Challa turned his head.

Nothing. Where there should have been an arm and a body cradling him from behind, there was nothing.

The demon was chuckling. “Don’t you worry about that, priest. You’ll see me soon enough.”

“How?” T’Challa licked his suddenly dry lips. “Why? Why me?”

The demon was still gripping his hand. Beside their joined hands on the desk, the photograph still showed an arm slung over T’Challa’s right shoulder. As if a person had sneaked up behind him in a crouch, and was in the process of climbing over to peer at the camera.

“Why me?” said T’Challa. “Is this a form of test? Or is it a punishment?”

“Isn’t faith just a struggle with your own self?” said the demon. “You ask too many questions, priest.”

“What is your name?”

“I go by a few. And didn’t I just say that you ask too many questions.”

“Tell me,” commanded T’Challa. Exorcism involved naming a demon to command it to leave. The demon had sounded rather amused with the quip about the questions, so T’Challa dared: “Tell me your name.”

“Now why would I do that? You think me a fool, priest?”

After a beat, T’Challa said, “We just met. I have not decided yet.”

The demon squeezed his hand, and T’Challa felt a stab of something searing in his chest. T’Challa hissed. 

A few moments passed before he could steel himself from such a pain.

T’Challa tried to centre himself. Keeping his breathing level, he glanced at the lighted lamp. Then he looked at the very much corporeal hand and arm over his right hand and arm.

“Was that you being annoyed?” T’Challa was admittedly fascinated. He’d never spoken with a demon before.

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

T’Challa turned his head again. “You do not? Are we speaking the same language?”

“Let’s go back to what you felt earlier,” said the demon. “About my arousal.”

“Must we?” T’Challa said in dubious tones.

“Felt good to you, didn’t it?”

If T’Challa did not know better, he swore he could hear a sort of demonic smugness seeping through. 

“It did,” he admitted. This was his body, and T’Challa made the rules. “I know what I felt.”

“You felt good,” the demon said again. “That a favourite word of your kind, isn’t it? Good.”

The demon lifted their joined hands from the desk.

“What are you doing?” T’Challa said. 

“Lick your hand, priest. Suck your fingers.”

T’Challa opened his mouth, closed it again.

“Why would I do that?” he finally managed to say. He reviewed their conversation. T’Challa stared at his hand. At their hands.

It all fell into place. 

T’Challa knew he should put a stop to it and hurry out to the church proper and pray. But he was terribly curious. This was all for theology. 

T’Challa wryly said, “I do have lube.”

The demon was laughing. “Where’d be the _good_ fun in that? Come on, do it. I can always shove your fingers in your mouth until you choke but you kept banging on about politeness.”

Did demons have notions about politeness? T’Challa wondered. Or was this demon just playing with him?

T’Challa brought his hand close and licked. He licked from the heel of his palm to the tip of his middle finger, then put two fingers in his mouth. And sucked.

His nape felt humid. The back of his mind grew humid, and T’Challa shivered. He sucked on his two other fingers as the humidity grew heavy, and dripped shivers down his spine. His shivering seemed to be feeding the humidity, and the humidity seemed to be feeding his shivers.

“Good?” the demon husked, just as another shiver licked up T’Challa’s spine.

T’Challa groaned around his sloppy fingers.

Then the demon tugged, and T’Challa now had his own hand wrapped around his cock. With a jolt he realised just how achingly hard he was.

“I asked you, priest. Good?”

“Good,” T’Challa breathed out, and made one slow pull.

“Your kind likes that word,” the demon said. “Good.”

T’Challa’s hand stilled against his will, and when his fingers clenched at the base of his cock on their own accord, the demon said, “Holy.”

“Release me,” T’Challa said. He was breathing heavily. And it was so humid. It was so hot.

“Not yet.” 

The demon made him stroke up again. Down again. Until T’Challa was the one in control again of each wet delicious pull, until he could feel heat pooling on his nape and on his scalp, until he could feel another alien layer of humidity lapping at the edges of his own, and until could feel the decadent, viscous building and building and building – 

And T’Challa came. 

Then his hand was ripped away from his still spurting cock. 

Ripped away. Then banged against it, once, twice, and T’Challa was keening, sobbing in shock, hiccupping frantically. His hips jerked desperately, his hands were frozen in place. 

T’Challa fell back on his sheets. He was drenched in sweat, twitching, wheezing. His cheeks were wet. It was like he had been crumpled. A spike of something greedy, something desperately hungry tore through him, and T’Challa knew it was his own.

“I like your tongues, priest,” the demon said. “I like how you change one human tongue for another.”

Was this the price of wanting to learn more about this? T’Challa curled his right hand, slowly brought it close to his chest. It was his own hand. It was his, it was his own.

“Leave me,” whispered T’Challa. He shut his eyes tight. Stripes of light burst across the darkness of his lids.

“Not yet,” the demon said, the sound of his smile palpable. “We still have another word. Divine.”

*

On the seventh day, T’Challa looked at the photograph and saw that his entire right side was covered in shadow. 

The shadow was limned gold by light and, when he looked closely enough, the edge of it was already untied from the edges of T’Challa’s image.


End file.
